


Liquid Courage

by MsLadySmith



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Sign of Three, Drunken Kissing, Hazy Memory, Is this the start of something?, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-06 18:18:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16392725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsLadySmith/pseuds/MsLadySmith
Summary: Dialogue prompt on AO3 Writers FB group:  "I remember kissing you.  Why do I remember kissing you?"





	Liquid Courage

Mycroft Holmes stood in the background, hovering just outside the reception hall as he listened to the strains of his brother’s violin piece, composed especially for the newlyweds.   Afterward, once the loud music and dancing had commenced, he snuck in and took a seat at a table along the back wall just as Sherlock strode out the side door, obviously unable to cope with Dr. Watson’s new-found happiness.

Across the dance floor, he spied Detective Inspector Lestrade, aided by an apparent ample intake of alcohol, attempting to dance with young Miss Hooper, who found his antics highly entertaining.  Mycroft, however, had a slightly different opinion, shifting awkwardly in his seat as he watched.

During a break in the music, Lestrade glanced in his direction, and wandered toward him.  He flopped into a chair beside Mycroft, unable to stop giggling.  “Hey there, good lookin’,” he stage-whispered.  “Wanna dance?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, a half-smile on his lips.  “I think, perhaps, you should be driven home to sleep off a portion of what you have had to drink this evening, Lestrade.  Before you embarrass yourself further.”

Greg waved him off.  “Greg.  It’s Greg.  If I can be this pissed and still talk to you, you can call me Greg.”

“All right, then.  Greg, I think I should take you home,” Mycroft said, calmly getting to his feet and offering a hand to Lestrade.

That statement elicited a giggle from the Detective Inspector.  “That’s awfully forward of you, but sure… what the hell.  You only live once, right?” Greg grabbed the offered hand and pulled himself unsteadily to his feet.  “Take me away, Mr. Holmes!”

Mycroft took Greg’s arm and gently lead him out of the reception hall to his waiting car.  “Greg, where shall I take you?” Without access to his database, he didn’t have Lestrade’s current address at hand. 

Unfortunately for Mycroft, as soon as Greg’s body hit the supple leather seats of his Range Rover, he not only closed his eyes to enjoy the feel of the plush vehicle, but because he was finally overcome by the alcohol in his system.  He was soundly asleep.

With a shrug, Mycroft used the only option available… he took Greg home.

A 30-minute drive later, and Mycroft Holmes was carrying Greg Lestrade over the threshold of his home in Kensington.  It was late enough that it was unlikely any of the neighbors noticed – not that they would say anything if they did.  He considered for a moment, then deposited Lestrade in the guest bedroom, where he gently woke him, showing him the en suite and ensuring he had whatever he might need for the night.  He left Greg sprawled out on the bed, snoring and dressed in nothing but boxers, and quietly closed the door.

\------------------------------------

As was his habit, Mycroft was up fairly early the next morning, having completed his morning run on the treadmill and drinking his second cup of strong tea when a disheveled Lestrade walked into the kitchen.

“Good morning, Detective Inspector.  Did you sleep well?”

Greg scrubbed his hand through his short silver hair and looked at Mycroft, bleary-eyed.  “Yeah, I guess.  You got any coffee?  And paracetamol?”

Mycroft gave him a knowing grin, and rose from the kitchen table, handing him a bottle of pills.  “I will make some coffee for you,” he offered, walking toward the counter as Greg took out two pills and swallowed them dry.

“So, this is your house?” Greg asked carefully.

“Yes.  You were… indisposed, and since I didn’t have your address, I thought it would be prudent to bring you here.”  Mycroft poured a cup of coffee from the French press, and offered it to the Detective Inspector.

“Thanks for not leaving me at the reception, then,” Greg nodded, taking the offered cup.  He sat at the table, and took a long, slow sip of the coffee.  “God, that’s good.  Thanks for this, too, Mycroft.”

“You are most welcome, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft resumed his seat at the table.

“Mycroft, I need to ask you something,” Greg said awkwardly.  “I remember kissing you. Why do I remember kissing you?”

Mycroft’s cheeks flushed crimson.  “Because you did.  I carried you to the guest room and set you on your feet.  Before I could react, you were kissing me.  Very thoroughly and pleasurably, I might add.”

Greg hid his face in his hands.  “Oh, God.  I’m sorry,” he started to say.

“I didn’t know if you were acting strictly because of your drunken state, or if your drunken state was a catalyst.”

Greg looked at him blankly.

“Would you have kissed me, had you been sober?”

Greg shifted awkwardly in his seat, staring into his coffee.  “Well, maybe… yeah, if I thought you were interested…”

Mycroft’s breath caught in his chest.  “I was not offended by it at all, if that’s your concern.  If you are truly interested, I wouldn’t mind repeating the experience sans liquor.”

“Yeah?  Worth noting, then,” Greg replied shyly.

Mycroft reached across the table and touched his fingers to Lestrade’s.  “Let me take you to dinner on Friday,” he said quietly.  “No pressure, no expectations.  Just a fine meal to be shared.”

“Sure,” Greg’s dark eyes caught his.  “I would like that.”


End file.
